Page 9

Helen took a deep breath, then pushed through the heavy glass doors.

The atrium of Southampton Central was as chaotic as ever, assorted members of the public mingling with police officers, their conversations a mixture of alarm, antagonism and frustration.

Weaving through the melee, Helen made her way quickly to the front desk, suddenly feeling self-conscious and exposed.

Clocking her approach, the cheery smile on the face of custody sergeant PC Mark Drayton faded, clearly shocked to see Helen back at her old stomping ground.

‘Do my eyes deceive me or has Elvis just entered the building?’

He chuckled to himself, his tone knowing and sarcastic, his obvious enjoyment of Helen’s discomfort checked only briefly, as he noticed the cuts and bruising on her left cheek, a souvenir of last night’s encounter that make-up couldn’t fully conceal.

In truth, the impact of that violent struggle had been profound, Helen feeling dizzy, nauseous and lethargic, despite her discharge from South Hants hospital in the early hours of the morning.

She’d returned home to shower and change, but felt little the better for it.

‘Good to see nothing changes, Mark. Still making yourself laugh.’

‘If I didn’t, I’d probably cry,’ he replied evenly, appraising her with naked curiosity. ‘So, to what do we owe the pleasure?’

‘Well, I’d …’

Helen hesitated, profoundly aware of the strangeness of the situation, then pressed on:

‘I’d like to report a crime.’

This time PC Drayton’s reaction was one of surprise, his consternation clear. Slowly he reached for his keyboard, his eyes still glued to Helen.

‘And was this a crime you were the victim of?’ he asked cautiously.

‘In a way,’ Helen replied carefully. ‘I took a nasty knock to the head and I’m feeling pretty sick as a result, but the real victim was a young woman. She was attacked and abducted right in front of me.’

‘I see,’ PC Drayton continued, his brow furrowing. ‘And when was this exactly?’

‘Just after midnight at the Bedford Place shopping parade. I saw her being attacked, so I intervened. But I was outnumbered, so …’

Helen kept her expression neutral, concealing her white lie. She had no desire to reveal her stupidity at having taken her eye off her assailants, an oversight that had proved disastrous. Where was Selima now? Was she even still alive?

‘So your involvement was purely coincidental then?’

‘Exactly. But anyone would have done the same.’

The custody sergeant’s reaction suggested that he very much doubted it and for a moment Helen feared he might accuse her of being a have-a-go hero, of deliberately seeking out the encounter. Fortunately, he did no such thing, continuing with his note taking.

‘I’m assuming you had no prior acquaintance with this lady?’

‘Not at all. I don’t know why she was being attacked, what her connection to her assailants might have been, but I do know that she was savagely beaten with a bicycle chain before being bundled into the back of a white transit van.’

‘Did you get the registration number by any chance?’

Helen shook her head weakly, as another wave of nausea swept over her.

‘Make and model then?’

‘No, sorry. I’d been hit on the head, I couldn’t see anything clearly.’

Drayton nodded slowly, looking ever more doubtful, as he added:

‘I take it then that you can’t accurately describe her attackers?’

‘Not especially, it was pretty dark, though one of them definitely had facial injuries and a prosthetic eye, I think.’

‘What about the victim then? Do you know her name?’ Drayton persisted.

‘Only her first name – Selima. She’s mid-twenties, black hair, brown eyes, with distinctive facial tattoos. I’m guessing she’s from central Asia, though I can’t be sure …’

‘And were there any witnesses to the attack? Other than yourself, I mean?’

Now there was no disguising the suspicion in his voice. Immediately anger flared in Helen, aggravated at the merest suggestion that she was mistaken or, even more outrageously, making the whole thing up.

‘Well, yes, actually. There’s a guy who runs a kebab shop in the parade. He was there, he certainly saw the initial attack, maybe her abduction too.’

‘Name?’

‘No idea,’ Helen replied, her tone laced with irritation. ‘We didn’t exchange details. I was concussed, lying on the floor …’

In her peripheral vision, Helen noticed a couple of heads turn. She was aware she was making a scene, but that had never stopped her in the past, so she persevered:

‘… but there’s only one kebab shop on that parade. If you send someone down there now, I’m sure he’ll talk to you, confirm what I’ve said. If there’s CCTV or traffic cams, it would obviously be great to get that footage too. Should give you a clear sight of the van, perhaps even the driver too.’

Drayton paused in his typing, looking up at his former colleague with a look that was half amusement, half irritation.

‘Well, I’ll certainly write up the report and see where we go from there—’

‘I’m sorry, PC Drayton, have you listened to anything I’ve said?’

Helen knew that she was overstepping the mark here, but she couldn’t help herself.

‘I’ve reported the brutal assault and abduction of a vulnerable young woman. Someone who even now could be in grave danger. What part of that don’t you understand?’

The custody sergeant looked at her curiously for a second, a wave of anger clouding his features, before he straightened himself up to his full height.

‘The part I don’t understand, Helen,’ he replied, stressing the last word, ‘is the bit where you get to come in here, as a civilian, and tell the police how to conduct their affairs—’

‘Look, that’s not what this is abo—’

‘Ordering them to investigate a “crime”,’ Drayton continued tersely, ‘of which there appears to be very little evidence. That’s not how it works.’

‘I do understand that,’ Helen replied, backtracking. ‘And I’m sorry if I offended you. It’s just that the situation is urgent and we need to act.’

As soon as she said it, she regretted it, her former colleague pouncing on her slip.

‘We? There is no “we” anymore. You left us, remember?’

And there it was, plain as day. Beneath the polite attention lay a simmering resentment, a quiet fury at her decision to call out her own police force, to resign on a point of principle, criticizing her former employers publicly. Her betrayal of the tribe had been neither forgotten, nor forgiven.

‘Now, was there anything else, because there are others waiting?’

Turning, Helen pushed through the crowds, hurrying across the atrium and out through the swing doors.

She was angry, embarrassed and bitterly disappointed.

She had come here on an urgent mission, seeking help and assistance, hoping that her past endeavours might at least win her a hearing with a senior officer.

But she was leaving empty-handed, her presence at Southampton Central neither beneficial nor welcome.

Clutching the rail, she staggered back down the steps in the spring sunshine, a fresh wave of nausea assailing her.

Swaying momentarily in front of the glass and limestone building, which for so many years had been her sanctuary, Helen turned to look back at her old HQ, before promptly vomiting on the floor.